Aubade
by suncityblues
Summary: "You can't help but think you're teetering on the edge of something painfully Breakfast Club. You decide to just ignore it." Conrad & Worth. Finished!
1. surdosage

Title : Aubade

Characters : Conrad & Worth

961 Words

by Merrycheri

The day you walked into his shit-hole office and saw him laying there on the ground so sick and not really there your heart felt like it was going to fall out. A rush of misery and fear and giddiness exploded in your mind and all you could do was stand there and say, "oh Worth."

He wasn't really sick. Not in the flu or cancer sort of way. It was hard not to notice the bags under his eyes or the way his head never seemed to be on correctly. The way he looked at you without really seeing you. Just taunted and teased and let go whenever you stopped being entertaining. That stung you. You couldn't place why.

Now he's laying on the ground in what looks like a pool of his own vomit. It's disgusting. All purple-red like wine. You sort of sort of stop to wonder when the last time he had a proper meal was but dismiss it. There were other things to worry about. Like how you think your heart might be rolling around somewhere on the floor.

He doesn't know you're there or doesn't acknowledge you until you lean down next to him, but your hand on his shoulder, and say, "what did you _do_?"

Worth's laugh is more a gurgling sound than anything else. "Fuck you, faggot" he lets out.

You sigh. At least he's not dead.

Two hours, a bucket of vomit, a wet towel, and a flight of stairs later you're sitting on his bed watching him sleep. He's the kind of pale that rivals your own. That makes you feel a kind of worried-sick you'd never felt before for anyone.

Which is bizarre when you think about it because Worth is the last person in the world who deserves your worry or your care and you can't help but think you're teetering on the edge of something painfully Breakfast Club. You decide to just ignore it.

--

You've been to Worth's office more times than you'd like to count. Stayed longer than you'd like to think about, but you've never been here. Not in his own private section of the place. Didn't even know it existed. It's just a room with a bed and a window and some junk strewn about on the floor. An oddly bohemian curtain leads to the tiny bathroom. A mostly depleted bag of brownish rocky looking stuff that you flush down the toilet.

You're tired and hungry and worried.

Would he need to go to hospital? The sun would be coming up dangerously soon, if you had to bring him somewhere you would have to do it now. Still he doesn't think Worth would condone going to hospital. Letting doctors look at him, find out who he was, call his family.

You'd never dealt with someone sick from drugs before. Didn't know if this was normal or something severe so you resolve to ask Worth. He does pretend to be a doctor, after all.

But all he says is, "fuck off I want to go back to sleep." So you, naturally, make sure to keep him awake until he looks more like himself and less like a dead person. You talk to him. He gets pissy and volatile but you weren't expecting anything else so it doesn't phase you.

You tell him all about your mother and how you love her but goddamn it she makes you so angry with the "are you taking your meds?" and the, "I've found a very reputable psychiatrist in your area, you may want to make an appointment" talk. You tell him about your work and why you moved to the US and the name of the dog you had to give away when you were growing up because your mother thought it was distracting you from making real friends.

He grumbles about you being a "pussy faggot goddamn cock-sucker" but you just take it as proof that he's awake ergo still breathing and you'd like to keep it that way. You make him tell you things about Australia, about his family about being a doctor and living in this shit hole and mostly it's all mumbled and soft and wishy-washy like he doesn't much care to even try and make it sound understandable but you learn that he's from Brisbane and he has a little sister.

Somehow just knowing that, those little things, makes you feel strangely connected to him. He's not even bitching anymore. You recognize that the dangerous part is over. This is just the high part. You can't help but murmur, "you're a stupid motherfucker" to him while he makes a real laughing noise, still far away but a lot closer that he was before.

You wake up eight or nine hours later on his bed with his head on your chest and your hands threaded through his greasy hair.

You shake him. Just to be sure.

He punches you.

You smile.

He huffs and looks up, effectively dislodging your fingers. You realize only now how inappropriate that was. Worth looks like he wants to say something to you but just pouts and wrinkles his brow like he couldn't think up the words.

It was a rare occasion to see Worth speechless so you raise an eyebrow and give him an incredulous look. He rolls his eyes and tells you to get the fuck out of his room.

And you do after you make him take a shower and get the blood you originally came there for.

There's a look on his face that you cannot place as you leave but you shrug it off and disappear into the darkness.


	2. terrapin

Ahaha I'm getting the hang of using open office to upload these fics.

Thank you for all your kind words and support on Aubade and my other stories, you are all so lovely I don't have the words to tell you.

Anyway, onwards and upwards:

* * *

The first time he kisses you he tastes like cheap wine and cigarettes and rainwater.

You followed him out onto the roof of his building because he said he didn't feel like sitting around down in his office. He says it in a way that implies you don't have to come. That he doesn't want you to, but you both know you will. You both know that it's all just part of the game.

It's still drizzling a bit but Worth doesn't seem to notice. You have your hood up.

He's clean now, you know. Or cleaner than he was. And not in a personal hygiene way. His head fits better. You both sit there for a bit, watching traffic like cars and traffic like hookers pass on the street below. You watch neon signs blinking pink then blue then yellow then red then pink reflecting on wet sidewalks and then he leans over and kisses you.

It's almost romantic.

But it's not a romantic kiss. Somehow it was oddly chaste for someone so undenied. For a second you think it's a weird Australian thing. Or worse, a thank-you spoken in the language of people who hate direct communication.

Worth wasn't stupid and even Hanna had noticed in the past few weeks. Things were different. The way you looked at him was different. You still bickered because he still annoyed the fuck out of you but when he was busy or even just lighting a cigarette your eyes would linger too long. On little things. Worth's knobby hands or long neck, the arch of his back.

You can't really tell what Hanna thinks of this whole thing because you're not entirely sure he knows, himself. But when he comes into Worth's office, which he does from time to time, and sees you sitting there he gives you a strange look that you still can't place and maybe don't want to.

It's too embarrassing, maybe. Too personal. Kind of pitying.

But the kiss is not a thank-you. Or not just a thank-you, anyway because he starts laughing like a maniac, presumably at your expression, and then kisses you again.

For real this time.

Your brain sort of freezes up but your hands find themselves fisted in his shirt and you're pushing against him and you can feel his heartbeat though his skin and it's all too much to think about until you remember to ease up because at least one party needs to actually breathe.

He's laughing again and he pulls off your hood. You feel stupid and embarrassed as he walks to the door leading downstairs. But he turns and arches a barely-visible eyebrow and says, "I'm sorry, did ya need a goddamn neon sign?"

You perk up and try to play it cool like you were taking your sweet time which neither of you buy. You follow him downstairs to his little room and he kisses you again and you kiss back harder than before and you know he likes it.

Words and limbs get tangled as you fuck him into the shitty mattress that he probably pulled from a dumpster but it's good and you like it and you probably can't get sick anymore, anyway.

Sex with Worth is painful and hard but you cannot imagine having ever had better.

You wonder if maybe now you could stand to be in each other's presence without fighting but that's sort of dashed because afterwards he's half-sitting up, smoking a cigarette and says something along the lines of "well that was okay" which is capitol bullshit because judging from the noises Worth was making it was more than just okay.

You tell him to go fuck himself next time, and you know there will be a next time, knew it before there was a first time. Then you get up and go to the bathroom.

It is tiny and the curtain is just as tacky as the last time you were there but at least there's no Worth. It's only his belongings, which are just and crude and mildly repulsive as their owner but at least they don't talk.

You wash off rather quickly but don't feel like going back out there so you look for what you know are there. Needles, those rubber hose type things, and sit on the edge of the tub with your head between your knees and just calm down when you do find them. You knew they were there but still shocked to find them. You wonder when you started to feel so attached to Worth.

You've only known him for a few months and you can barely call him a friend and yet you just fucked him and you feel so ridiculously happy about that, you're a little upset with yourself.

You have serious doubts that Worth is even capable of feeling true affection.

When you come out of the bathroom he's passed out on top of the blankets which is a stupid thing to do because it's March and not even close to warm enough but you don't really care that much, in the long run, so you just lay next to him and fall asleep as the sunlight peaks through Worth's thick red curtains.

--

You wake up with a blanket over you and no Worth.

It's raining again.

You gather your shit and put your pants back on and tell yourself that you're not mad or hurt. Then you go downstairs to find Worth at his desk as usual, rolling cigarettes in that sloppy over-long fashion he so enjoys.

He looks up as you come out, and says, "g'morning sunshine" in that drawling tone of his.

You want to punch him, you really, really do.

You want to go home and sit at your desk and draw a series of pictures where you murder him in increasingly violent and painful ways, like you used to when you were little and you were mad at your teacher.

But you don't.

That's what changes things, you think.

This is the first time you can recall that you don't sink down to his level. Give him exactly what he's asking for.

You just shake your head and tell him you'll stop by tomorrow.

He just says "Pfeh" but you know what he means.

He's becoming more and more translucent. Easy to read.

You see something of yourself in him, you think. You're not anything alike but there's something that is the same, you don't have words for it, just a feeling, an indescribable idea floating outside your chest that matches one in his.

It's not an emotion, it's something more linear, something harder to change.

If you told him that he'd just laugh at you.

You might do it anyway.


	3. syringa

Hi lovelies!

So this is the end for Aubade, it's been a lot fun and your support and kind comments and whatnot has been really amazing. I wish I could convey to you how much I appreciate you gals & guys, but the best I can do is give you the end. c:

Anyway, I hope you enjoy~

* * *

You think that this is the end.

You thought it before this whole thing even began. You knew there was a time limit.

An expiration date.

But you feel so stupid. So, unimaginably, painfully idiotic, the way you did in primary school when a popular kid would talk to you and you wouldn't be sure if they were making fun or not.

If you could die, then now would be a good time, you think. You let the thought float around the room, your room, ghosting over the red lamp shade and the book shelf and all the little things you once collected and loved, discarded on the top of your dresser. Then you take it back.

He's laying on the bed, hidden somewhere beneath a million folds of liquid white sheets. One with the universe, maybe, but not yours.

You decide that you hate him. That you want to end this-whatever-that he's not good enough for you, not good enough for anyone.

This is the eighth time this week you've decided that.

But he's still there, and you're still here and the idea of that not being true makes your stomach clench up and twist itself into strange shapes you'd rather not think about. It's a feeling not unlike the one you have when know he's about to kiss you, but painful. You wonder if it's humanity's cruel joke, the blurring of expectation and fear and hunger and nervousness.

Or maybe it's worse, maybe it's something that keeps people from truly understanding themselves, understanding what they want.

You're not dumb but you are not much of a thinker, not a linear one, anyway, you put too much emphasis on how you feel, instead. Sometimes you wish you didn't but it's the same as sometimes wishing you played an instrument or owned a pool table. In the end you have what you have and since you've never had differently you can't imagine missing it.

He's moving now, a bit. Murmuring something you can't understand. Your stomach sinks a bit more.

"You're finally up," you say.

Bitchy, you know, but he needs it and it's not like he's never picked on you before.

He grunts and tries to tangle his way out of the sheets, pulling them off the bed in the process, which annoys you, but everything annoys you right now so you don't do anything about it. You just glare at him. He doesn't notice or doesn't care. So you glare harder.

Once he is free from his Egyptian cotton prison and headed to the bathroom, he stops in front of you and takes your chin between his thumb and forefinger. Says, "Cheer up, Connie, if yeh frown any harder ye' might break something."

You tell him to fuck off and then you go back to bed.

That's the last you see of Worth for the next three days.

It's not that he disappeared, it's just that he must have wriggled some runes out of Hanna and was probably passed out on his floor or in a dirty alley or under a bridge with a bunch of bums cooking roadkill over a garbage fire, you don't care. Eating roadkill serves him right.

In any case, you don't want to see that, don't want to know about it, don't want it at all.

You're hurt and concerned and furious all at once until it's white hot and corroding everything else in your life.

You listen to Songs:Ohia for two days straight after that.

Then on the third day he calls you and you ignore him because he's being stupid. And you're being stupid too but, well, he started it.

When you do see him, it's because you're hungry and you still haven't manned up enough to drink fresh blood. You think the bagged stuff might be making you a bit fat but you can't be sure and that doesn't really make a lot of sense when you think about it.

And maybe you want to see him.

Lamont is there with fresh boxes of whatnots. It's been a while since you've last seen the guy. He's not so bad, a lot more congenial than Worth, certainly, but a lot less honest, too.

You're not sure if you should trust him and you can't ask Worth since they're friends or Hanna because he trusts just about anyone. It's getting to be a real pain in your ass.

Lamont smiles but it doesn't reach his eyes and says, "oh good, maybe you can make him stop being a whiney asshole."

You pout a bit at that, but you're also fighting off a smile. You can hear Worth grumbling loudly from a back room somewhere, and it's good to know that some things never change, even if you never really thought they would. Lamont has his sly face on.

He hands you Worth's cheque and says something along the lines of "I'll be going then" which actually means a whole host of other things you never ever want to talk about with Lamont, or anyone, actually.

Out of the blue you wonder what you mother would say.

But then Worth is stepping out and making a harrumphing noise that means he's mildly surprised to find you there, playing it up like he doesn't care and you're practically throwing Lamont's cheque at him and demanding blood at the same time and it's like a hello, I missed you, I missed you too, but better because it's yours. Not anyone else's. Spoken in a language very few people knew and fewer understood.

And five minutes later when your hands are in his pants and he's flushed against a wall saying your name, over and over and over and over, you think that maybe this is what happiness is. This happiness is not happiness at all, but it's understanding and loyalty and compassion. And maybe happiness isn't right word to say at all but you're not ready for that yet, and you doubt you will be for a long time. If ever.

And you know it won't work out in the long run or the long long run, if you're lucky, but maybe that's a thought for tomorrow. A thought for another life. Maybe in that other life things could have been different, maybe if Worth wasn't such a fuck up or if you had never become a vampire. Maybe if you had met in a subway station in a world much like this one, or a coffee shop, or anywhere besides here, maybe it would be different but maybe you don't want it to be different.

For now you just want to to be here, in this place, with this person and no one else.

Which is lame, you know, but he's good in bed.

So there's always that.

-"-

_And so they say-  
"the incident dissolved"  
the love boat smashed up on the dreary routine.  
I'm through with life  
and should absolve from mutual hurts, afflictions and spleen._

-Mayakovsky

* * *

So sorry about the long wait for this to be finished but I've been busy, and actually am still busy, but it's all good.  
It was going to be much sadder but I decided to end it on semi-happy note because I've been writing too much depressing stuff lately.

Hmmm now what to write next for hinabn...


End file.
